


Revenge is For Tomorrow

by lysanatt



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Slavery, Violence, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:40:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/451979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape has planned for this, his redemption, for years, living like Harry Potter's property. The chance finally comes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge is For Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maddiec24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddiec24/gifts).



> This is my one first and only Snape/Potter fic, and also the last. Only for Maddie24 I'd suffer this much! ;0) Maddie requested slave!Snape, fisting, humiliation, and a happy end. I tried, Maddie, I promise. I am afraid it is rather dark, but there is a flicker of hope in the end! Written before DH.

You are not even trying to avoid it any more. The hot spray invades you, floods your skin and your mouth. You do not move, because what is the point? The little shit will have his way with you anyway. You splutter and cough as the spray stops and you can breathe again.

'Now it is your turn,' Potter says, smirking, and his red-headed friend releases yet another stream at you. You close your mind since you cannot close your mouth and you sink into a world where Potter and his friends hang, gutted, crucified and Crucioed on a wall with their intestines spilling out on the floor, covering their castrated groins. It is such a pretty thought.

They leave you with the metal ring which leaves you unable to close your mouth and their laughter is ringing in your ears. You manage to get the ring out, turning enough so you don't choke when you cough and vomit. Yes, Potter has taught himself well, you think. He always had this casual cruel streak, you saw that when he was but a child. But he is not a child, not any more. He is the saviour of the wizarding world, the Dark Lord's bane, and you--you are but a traitor and a slave. Harry Potter's prisoner.

It is always worse when his friends are here. As if Potter tries to show them how clever he is, how cruel he can be. But you knew, didn't you? That keeping a child in a cupboard for ten years would make him able to do something similar to others? Only now it is you, treated worse than a dog, kept in the basement under Grimmauld Place, not fit to be allowed in the house when others are there.

You knew, already before Dumbledore's fall, before the Dark Lord's murder. You knew because otherwise you could not have planned and schemed and used your power to end up here, in the hands of your enemy. That is what keeps you calm through what this child, this young man, does to you. It is a part of your plan, the only way for you to take your power back; to reach the heights you were torn from when your lord died.

It is always worse when his friends have been here...

 

You wake up suddenly, in another stream, this time cold water. You know why. He is not going to touch you, stinking of his piss. Sometimes you wonder why he is touching you at all, how he can make himself do it. You try to get up before he reaches you, he is not above kicking you in the ribs, even though he _is_ a repulsive little coward, not man enough to use other than his wand to make cuts and bruises grow on your body, nurtured by his nasty little spells. If at least he could do that properly. You understand fully why your Lord did not want the Muggle-borns or their offspring amongst you. Not all have the talent you have. Or the guts.

'Up,' he orders you. 'Or I'll-'

'You will what, Potter? You are just a little afraid boy.'

'Right. Only I am not afraid of you,' he says and drags you up from the cold wet floor, just to push your bony frame up against the wall.

You know what will come. It is as if just violating you isn't enough; as if spraying you with piss, humiliating you and keeping you as a prisoner is not enough for him. It is as if his thirst for revenge is so deep he wants you to feel how deep it goes--inside. You let him do it. When you feel his hand--because fingers is not enough for him any more--at your entrance, you whisper a spell. You might allow him to do this to you, but you will not allow him to ruin you. You are here because it was better than Azkaban--a part of your scheming. What is a little rough handling when it at the bottom line will give you freedom instead of lifetime in a desolate prison? You can tolerate what he does to you because Azkaban is infinitely worse.

You know how it goes: he fingers you, and you try to relax. The spell helps. Fighting is not going to help you, you knew that already before you goaded the jurors into handing you over to your arch enemy. In a bout of artificial tears, begging for his mercy and your redemption you claimed to be innocent, of course, but when they wouldn't believe you, you went for Harry Potter as the last resort, mostly because you knew how easy it would be to manipulate him into this.

So you let him finger you and you relax, even moan, because the persistent fingers reach your prostate. Not because Potter wants you to have any pleasure, but because it is unavoidable since the boy is trying to get his whole hand inside you. You spread your legs and groan, loudly, because you know it irks him, it disturbs him more than the fact that he is trying to torture you. Not so easy to torture a willing victim. You know that everything he does to you now will give you power over him later, when you are free and it is Harry Potter who has to redeem himself to you.

As usual he presses more fingers inside, sometimes you let him, because the pain of this feels cleansing; a fire to burn away the slight longing for something else, something softer, that haunts your brain once in a while. Sometimes you wish that you had Potter on his back and it was your hand buried deep inside him, into his narrow, tight little arse. 'Yes, Potter,' you groan. 'Fuck me, you know you want it,' and he reacts just as you know he will; he thrusts his fist inside you, fucking you hard with it until your breath is ragged from pain and the pleasure you have chosen to take in this: the pleasure of making Harry Potter feel seriously disturbed.

He is aroused by it and that is your triumph. It doesn't matter to you when he withdraws his hand, stretching your inside muscles to their limit. You have done things worse than this trying to stop a war. You have had things more painful and more degrading done to you. Not like this, but murder and killings taint the mind, you know that already. This is nothing you tell yourself. Just a demented child playing with what little power has been given to him. The real power is the one you have, because you move him like a pawn over the chequered board you have created for the both of you. Friend and foe. Pain and pleasure. Love and hate. Guilty and innocent. Black and white. That is all you are. 

Just like Potter.

He groans behind you and you prepare. This moment is the worst, when his arms are around you and he thrusts inside you, forcing you into an intimacy that is almost unbearable. You would rather have had the violence, the beatings, the humiliation to this; the moment when his warm body touches yours and reminds you for a second that things could be different.

He fucks you hard and fast, your face pushed against the cold cellar wall, your chains clatter against the wall, metallic and sharp. It doesn't matter if it is piss or come he desecrates you with, it is just to endure until he leaves you alone.

This is how it is while you wait; a black famished spider waiting for the moment where your prey has lost his edge, for the moment when he is finally getting careless.

 

Time goes. Days become weeks, and weeks grow into months and years. Revenge has lost its interest to Potter. He still takes you because he can, and he is clearly too far out to let go of you. Sometimes you wonder why he hasn't taken a lover, found himself a girlfriend. But then again; who wants to live in a house with a boy hero and his former tormentor?

So he still fucks you. It becomes a habit, you give up the taunting, and in return he lets you stay above the ground. Maybe it is the other way around? You are not sure and it doesn't really matter. It is all a part of the carefully laid out plan in your mind.

He calls you names. When he whips you or when he fucks you. You are certain that this is just to spite you or humiliate you, there is nothing he wants from you but that. Why else would he had accepted to be the one to execute your punishment?

 _Dirty sadist_ , he calls you. ' _Ruthless bastard_.' Some words are more derogatory, but you don't care, since the things you think of him are much worse. He is but a child who has learned his first filthy word, and almost beams as he uses them. You have nothing but contempt for him, and you suffer his verbal as well as his physical abuse in silence. After all you suffered under your Lord's Cruciatus far too many times, and _that_ Potter hasn't yet subjected you to. You knew beforehand that Harry Potter was a coward. You, on the other hand, would not have held back had the Lord won and Potter had been your slave.

Slowly as time passes by, his dirty mouth and the foul words change. Probably unbeknownst to himself Potter weaves a net of guilt and remorse to catch himself in and slowly you become ' _my dirty bastard_ '. He tells you how good a fuck you are when you are tied up on his bed. His bed slowly becomes your bed, too. It disturbs you that you really don't mind. The nights you have to spend in the basement are few and one day he doesn't even care to lock you up down there when the werewolf and the ugly Weasley and the hag he calls wife show up. 'Just ignore him,' Potter tells them and they forget about you. No one feels compelled to piss on you while you are sitting quietly in the kitchen, reading.

That is the day when you know it is time to put to work the plan you have had for so long.

 

The Aurors find the Pensieve exactly where you tell them it would be.

'Why haven't you told us before?' they ask. Kingsley and Scrimgeour look horribly guilty when you sit in Scrimgeour's office.

'You did not believe anything I said, then, did you? No matter what, you would not have believed me. It is so nice to have one's work appreciated.' You know that the memory in the Pensieve is cleverly crafted. It is not the truth, but it is not a lie either. It just puts you in a better light. You did murder Albus. You did spy for the Order. That is what it tells the Aurors. That and that Albus begged you to use his death to secure yourself. You did. Only you did not tell how much you had wanted your Dark Lord to win the battle. How much hatred you had gathered to produce that final killing curse. But the Pensieve does not tell that story.

'You will of course receive... restitution,' they tell you.

'I see,' you say. Only Galleons do not hold your interest. Only freedom and, well, another form of compensation. 'Potter... what kind of restitution am I going to receive from him?' you ask. 'Or maybe there is nothing that can repay what he took from me?'

Behind you Potter gasps. You know that moment that you _own_ the boy. Cleverly you have formed him through your imprisonment, slowly you have prepared for this, this moment of genuine triumph, the moment when the wizarding world belongs to you--you, the wronged hero of the last battle. Inside you laugh. They are so easy, so naive.

Before you can say anything, Potter is on his knees before you, begging for forgiveness. His eyes are those of a wet puppy and you are not really certain whether you want to kick him or not. 'Let's go home,' you say and only later realise that your prison has become your home. You leave the Ministry and Disapparate into Grimmauld Place.

Inside you don't wait as much as a second before you have Potter slammed up against the wall. 'Are you prepared to pay what penalty I demand from you?' you snarl at him, feeling his slender body tremble under your rough hands.

Potter only nods.

You rip his robe open without care for fabric or buttons and the sound makes Potter yelp. It is such a sweet sound. It will be even sweeter when you have the boy under you, slamming inside him, thrusting your cock deep in him, splitting him as he did to you. Ah, revenge will be good!

'Strip,' you tell him and, shaking from fear and troubled conscience, he does what you tell him to. He is weeping. From guilt, maybe, or because he knows what you will do to him, counting on you being as ruthless as he suspected you would be. You drag him up the stairs to your bedroom, into your bed. You are not going to degrade yourself by fucking Harry Potter in a stinking basement.

He cries when you prepare him, roughly, only not as rough as you could have been. You wonder for a second if you are getting old and soft. You are almost going insane from the triumph you feel when you slide home, buried deep in Potter's clenching tight arse. Salazar! It feels like heaven. At last he is yours. Your slave, your revenge, your property. 

He whimpers softly as you move and you moan against his back. He is soft under you and suddenly you find yourself kissing the slightly tanned skin of his neck. He is warm around you and you can't hold back the moans you have hidden deep in your throat. 'Harry...' You cry out and spill yourself inside him, somehow your hand is around him, and his whimpers become moans as well. You close your eyes, because the wet warmth over your hand tells about a reality you are not really ready to accept. You maybe never will.

Right now you don't care. You just turn in the bed, dragging your prisoner down with you, your arms around him and your lips on his. How it came to this you have no idea. Right now you won't think of it.

Tomorrow you can think of revenge. Maybe.


End file.
